Part 6

“How much of it did you hear?”

“About all of it, I think.” The minister’s voice was crisp and hard. Hashknife squinted curiously at him.

“About all of it, eh? Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “And how much of it are yuh goin’ to tell?”

“How much am I going to tell? What makes you think I am going to tell any of it?”

“Because,” Hashknife’s grin was aimed to take off some of the sting, “yuh don’t look like a man I’d trust with a secret.”

“Really?” The minister straightened in his saddle at the direct insult. “That is not very complimentary, Hartley.”

“----, I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“No?”

“No-o-o. Yuh see, they taught me in Sunday school to tell the truth. If my talk offends yuh--blame religion. If so much of my Sunday school teacher’s talk hadn’t stuck to my brain, I’d prob’ly lie to you like other folks do.”

“A paragon, eh?”

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife, after a moment, “it’s a good thing I don’t _sabe_ that word.”

“Possibly. Now just where are we getting to in this conversation?”

“Right back to where we started, Deacon. You heard Dad Parker accuse Cliff of being the Trey of Spades. Cliff didn’t deny it. The question is this--are yuh goin’ to tell what yuh heard?”

“Why should I?”

“And there yuh are,” Hashknife flapped his arms wearily. “I’d just as soon argue with an old woman as a preacher. They always say ‘because,’ or ‘why.’ My ----, do yuh think I want to ask questions and answer ’em myself?”

The minister smiled at Hashknife’s serious expression.

“Would it be a Christian thing to do, Hartley--to tell?”

“What do I know about Christian things?”

“We seem to be deadlocked again.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“We sure are, pardner.”

“Are you trying to coerce the church, Hartley?”

“I ain’t sure. I’ve got a hazy idea what that word means, but I do know this: We’ve got a sheriff to chase criminals, and we’ve got a preacher to chase the devil. The sheriff ain’t got nothin’ on the devil, and the minister hadn’t ought to chase criminals. It ’pears to me that they’d both do pretty well if they minded their own business, as far as they are personally concerned.”

“That is not a bad philosophy, Hartley.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones picked up his reins, laughing softly. “I think it can be carried out--as far as the preacher is concerned.”

“That’s fine,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll answer for the sheriff. If he monkeys with yore Gospel, let me know, will yuh?”

“I will, Hartley. As soon as my church is inhabitable, I would like to see you in the congregation.”

“Yuh might, at that,” laughed Hashknife. “So-long, _compadre_.”

“Good-by.”

* * * * *

Cliff lost no time in getting to Oxbow, and his horse was dripping with sweat when he drew up at the Cheyenne hitch-rack. Jud Farley had seen Cliff ride into town, and there was considerable of a pucker between the sheriff’s eyes as he speculated upon things.

He watched Cliff hurry into the saloon, and his conclusions were that Cliff was badly in need of a drink. After a short wait he sauntered over to the Cheyenne and eased himself inside.

Cliff was at the bar, leaning on his elbows and looking at his reflection in the backbar mirror.

His body tensed slightly as he saw the sheriff’s face reflected in the glass, but he did not turn.

“Howdy, Cliff,” said the sheriff pleasantly as he moved in beside him. “Have a little drink?”

“Thank yuh, Jud; I’ve had enough for now.”

Cliff turned and they looked at each other. The sheriff’s eyes flashed to the bandage, but he did not remark about it.

“Bronc throwed me off in a mesquite,” said Cliff slowly. “I was back in the hills. That ---- mesquite sure punches yuh full of holes.”

The sheriff nodded thoughtfully.

“It’s mean stuff, Cliff. Lost yore hat, too, eh?”

“Uh-huh. Got to get me a new one. I was kinda knocked out and went away without it. Mebbe I could find the place, but it’s doubtful.”

“Bronc throwed yuh, yuh say?”

“Yeah--not my bronc though. He’s in the stable here in town. I was kinda wobbly; so I went to the ranch in the wagon. I was ridin’ another bronc when I got throwed.”

“Uh-huh,” Farley smiled, because he knew that Cliff’s horse was still in the livery stable, and he decided that Cliff was a first-class liar. Then it suddenly struck him that Cliff had not lied about it all. That Maverick ranch wagon had been in town the night before, and had gone back to the ranch while he and Buck were trying to pick up the trail of the bandit.

“I was out to the ranch this mornin’,” offered Farley. “I seen Dorothy Clement. By golly, she’s a nice girl, Cliff.”

“Yeah,” said Cliff thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I was out in the hills and didn’t get to meet her at the train.”

“Yeah, it was too bad.”

Farley knew that Cliff hadn’t been in the hills. He had seen Cliff in Oxbow that afternoon, and Cliff was in no condition to ride a horse. And Cliff knew that Farley did not believe him.

“You heard about the jewel robbery, didn’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.

“They talked about it at the ranch,” said Cliff easily. “Didn’t amount to much as long as the jeweler got his stuff all back. That Trey of Spades has sure got nerve.”

“Yeah, but he’s careless.”

“Thasso?” Cliff’s eyes studied a framed picture on the opposite wall. “Well, I suppose they all get careless. Wouldn’t be much use for jails, if they didn’t. Let’s have a drink, Jud.”

They drank and turned away from the bar. Vincent Roche came swinging through the front door but stopped suddenly at sight of Cliff’s bandaged head.

“What hit you?” he asked.

Cliff explained about being thrown off his horse in the hills. Roche listened closely, a half-smile on his face. He knew that Cliff had not been in condition to ride into the hills, but he felt that Cliff had a good reason for lying about it in the presence of the sheriff.

“I was over to the ranch to see yuh,” said Roche, anxious to change the subject. “I met the Reverend Jones, who had also been there.”

“Had he?” Cliff smiled grimly. “Some day----”

“You let the preacher alone,” advised the sheriff dryly. “He’s needed around here.”

“Then keep him around here,” retorted Cliff. “We don’t need him out at the Maverick,” and then to Roche, “Did yuh go out to the ranch, Vint?”

Roche shook his head.

“No. The sky-pilot told me that you had pulled out for town; so I rode back here with him. He invited me to church.”

Farley smiled and walked away. He knew that there was nothing further to be gained from talking to Cliff. They watched him disappear.

“You went out in the hills and got bucked off in a mesquite,” said Roche slowly. “That’s fine. Dorothy showed up; so you better brace up and behave yourself. Now tell me somethin’ about those two new punchers at the Maverick.”

“What do yuh want to know about ’em, Vint?”

“Are they just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, or are they here to try and find the Trey of Spades?”

Cliff squinted thoughtfully. Then, “Just cowpunchers, Vint.”

“Are yuh sure?”

“Well, I’m as sure as death or taxes. What do you want to know for?”

“Just curious, tha’sall. Let’s go and take a whirl at the old wheel.”

“I’ll look on,” grinned Cliff. “I’m sure lookin’ for cheap amusement.”

The sheriff went back to his office, where Buck was asleep on a cot, and sat down to try and plan just what to do. Buck awoke in a bad humor, as usual, but grew interested when the sheriff told him about Cliff’s injuries.

“Looks kinda bad for Cliff,” agreed Buck. “I wonder why the blasted fool came back thataway.”

“Got thirsty, I reckon.”

“You didn’t have much luck with that feller Hartley, did yuh?” queried Buck.

Farley shook his head.

“Not what you’d notice.”

Buck cleared his throat raspingly and shifted his position.

“I’m suspicious of them two, Jud. I tell yuh, they’re laughin’ at us all the time. Dang ’em, they know too much t’ suit me.”

“Aw, ----, they couldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Well, suppose it ain’t Cliff? Who’s the next bet?”

“I’m not bettin’, Buck. If it ain’t Cliff--I’ll eat my old shirt.”

“Then why in ---- don’tcha arrest him?”

“And have Hartley, Stevens, Dad Parker and Milly prove an alibi for him, eh?”

“That’s the ---- of it!” snorted Buck disgustedly. “Every hand is agin’ us, Jud. ’Pears to me that the law ain’t pop’lar no more. I’m sure glad we’re goin’ to have a church. If a lot of these jiggers would git the Ten Commandments drilled into ’em, me and you would have an easier job.”

“How many of ’em do you know, Buck?”

“----, I don’t have to know ’em.”

“You’re pure, are yuh?”

“Jist like the driven snow,” said Buck savagely. “And I git poorer and poorer every year. Pure and poverty-stricken. Them two words fit together jist like meanness and money.”

The rest of the day was uneventful. Several times the sheriff went to the Cheyenne and found Vincent Roche bucking the roulette wheel. Cliff was not playing; so the sheriff decided that Cliff was either broke or afraid to show too much money.

It was after dark when Buck joined him and they went to the Rodeo restaurant. Blackie Dahl was there, sitting moodily at a table, alone. He had been drinking steadily all day.

“Prob’ly got turned down by the Countess,” said Buck. “That’s kind of specialty with her--turnin’ ’em down. But I don’t blame her for ditchin’ Blackie. My ---- he’s a awful specimen of humanity.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” advised the sheriff. “Blackie’s in a bad humor.”

“Aw, ----! We’ll have to kill him sometime, Jud; so it might as well be one time as another.”

Jud grinned and attacked his food. In a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy came in and sat down at the nearest table. Buck glowered at them, but the sheriff seemed pleased. As soon as he finished his meal he went over and took a vacant chair beside Hashknife.

“Well, what’s new?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ new,” The sheriff rested his elbows on the table and chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick.

Hashknife and Sleepy finished their meal and got up from the table. Buck went out ahead of them and crossed the street, but the sheriff waited for them to pay their check and met them outside.

“I don’t want to seem to be ridin’ you fellers, but I’d sure like to trade talk with yuh.” The sheriff was apologetic.

“Trade talk?” Hashknife grinned.

“Yeah. I want yuh to understand that I ain’t jumpin’ at no conclusions; _sabe_? With what I already know I could make a lot of grief for somebody; but I ain’t hangin’ crape on doorways until I’ve got the old deadwood planted.”

“That’s sure square of yuh, Farley; and I might trade on that basis--if you talk first.”

“All right. Come down to my office, will yuh?”

They walked down the street and went into the office. The sheriff lighted the oil lamp, closed the door, and the three of them sat down beside his desk.

“I’m goin’ to play my cards face up,” stated the sheriff. “Beatin’ around the bush ain’t goin’ to get me nothin’ with you two. Cliff Parker held up that jewelry store last night, got hurt and was taken to the ranch by you fellers.”

Hashknife and Sleepy squinted at each other.

“I’m playin’ ’em in sight,” warned the sheriff. “You two went into that back yard, while me and Buck went ridin’. There’s blood on the ground where the robber laid, and it wasn’t hard to trail him to the hitch-rack. Cliff’s got his head all bandaged up today and there’s shot marks on his face. He got enough shot to make him blunder into that fence, where he bumped himself. The plunder flew out of his hands. All this was dead easy to read. Now, I’m askin’ you to talk a little.”

“But why do yuh say it was Cliff Parker?” grinned Hashknife. “You only know that Cliff has been hurt. He said he got throwed into a mesquite bush.”

“Mesquite, ----! I’ll show yuh how I know.”

The sheriff hitched over to his desk and drew open one of the drawers. He scowled deeply, and reached for the lamp with his other hand. After a close inspection, while the two cowboys watched him closely, he lifted his hand from the drawer and tossed a playing card on to the table, face up. It was the trey of spades.

The sheriff looked searchingly at the two men, and poked at the card with his finger.

“Two hours ago Cliff Parker’s hat was in that drawer,” he said slowly. “It ain’t there now.”

“Turned into the trey of spades, eh?” queried Hashknife seriously.

Farley’s eyes hardened and his lips drew into a straight, level line.

“I didn’t ask yuh for much help, Hartley,” he said coldly, “but I do ask yuh not to interfere with the law.”

Hashknife leaned across the desk and squinted in the sheriff’s face.

“Do yuh mean to say that we stole the hat?”

Farley’s eyes shifted under Hashknife’s steady gaze and he looked at the card.

“We didn’t, Farley,” said Hashknife. “I figured that you had the hat, and I’d ’a’ stole it, if I had the chance.”

The sheriff sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, there’s no evidence left, that’s a cinch. I was a fool to leave it in that drawer.”

Hashknife picked up the card and examined it. The back of it was an intricate design, printed in blue. It had never been used, because it was as white and crisp as a card from a new deck.

“Are all his cards like this?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff rummaged in another drawer and took out another trey of spades with the same colored back.

“That’s the one he left at the jeweler’s place.”

“Can I take this one?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. I dunno what good it’ll do yuh, though.”

Hashknife pocketed it and they went over to the Cheyenne. Blackie Dahl was at the bar, and he glared at them, but did not speak. His eyes were almost crossed from excessive drinking but he did not stagger. They went into the gambling room and looked over the games. Cliff was humped in a look-out chair, with a glass of liquor in his hand, watching the play.

“He ain’t been playin’ today,” observed the sheriff.

“Prob’ly broke,” said Hashknife.

“Prob’ly not,” replied the sheriff dryly. “I wonder where Roche is?”

Blackie passed them, going toward the dance-hall, and Slim Cole met them at the entrance. He glanced at Blackie and grinned widely.

“Blackie’s workin’ up a grudge,” he said. “Vint Roche has been talkin’ with the Countess for an hour, and Blackie has been wanderin’ around like a lost duck.”

They moved into the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and gained a position near the orchestra. About half-way down, on the opposite side, sat Vincent Roche and the Countess in close conversation.

“Roche hit the wheel for a lot of money today,” said Slim. “He must have cashed in about two thousand dollars.”

“Not so good for you, eh?” said Hashknife.

“Aw, I’ll get it all back.”

“With interest,” added the sheriff.

“That’s the beauty of this business,” laughed Slim. “It’s like makin’ a loan. Once in a while yuh find a man who is wise enough to keep what he wins, but the majority of ’em can’t forget how easy it was to get.”

Blackie Dahl had been bumped by several dancers, which did not increase his humor to any extent. He moved closer to Roche, although trying to appear indifferent. It amused Slim Cole, but not so Jud Farley.

“Blackie is drunk enough to be dangerous,” said Jud. “If Roche is wise he’ll watch that son-of-a-gun.”

Suddenly a dancing couple collided with Blackie, knocking him almost into Roche, who looked up at Blackie and said something. A moment later Blackie had flung the table aside and stepped back, reaching for his gun.

But whisky had slowed Blackie’s speed, and before he could use the gun Roche smashed him full in the face, knocking him half-way across the hall, where he sprawled full-length on the floor. The orchestra stopped with a crash and the dancers scattered.

Instinct had caused Blackie to cling to his gun, in spite of the blow, but before he could recover sufficiently to use it, Roche’s right foot was on it, crushing it out of his hand. Jud Farley crossed to them and helped Blackie to his feet.

The punch had loosened all of Blackie’s front teeth and had driven the whisky from his brain. He looked weakly around, as if wondering what it was all about.

“You go home and sober up,” advised the sheriff.

“That’s good advice,” agreed Roche, examining his skinned knuckles. “And next time you start to draw on me--look out, Blackie.”

“Yeah?” Blackie spat painfully, turned on his heel and went out of the place.

“Whipped,” declared a cowboy.

“Not whipped,” said the sheriff. “Yuh can’t whip this kind.”

Roche went back, straightened the table and sat down again.

“He’s no milk-fed infant himself,” said Sleepy. “He sure cooled Mister Dahl with one punch.”

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted back through the gambling room. Cliff was still in the look-out chair, joking with the players.

“We might as well go home,” said Hashknife. Sleepy nodded and they went back to their horses.

“Cliff ain’t as big a fool as I thought he was,” observed Sleepy, as they rode back to the ranch.

“And the funny part of it is,” laughed Hashknife, “Jud Farley didn’t get any trade talk out of us. He told us all he knew, Sleepy. I was sure he had that hat, and I didn’t lie when I told him I would have stolen it.”

“Yeah, I suppose yuh would, Hashknife. Didn’t we agree to keep out of other people’s business?”

“Well, yeah, we did. I ain’t hornin’ into anything, Sleepy. We won’t get any deeper into this thing. Cliff is clear, as far as the law is concerned.”

“Yeah--as far as the law is concerned.”

“Well, that’s as far as we can go, Sleepy. I know how Dad and Milly must feel about it. It’s a ---- of a jolt. But it kinda looks like folks were put on this earth to suffer. For every whisky glass full of joy there’s a five-gallon demijohn of bitter misery for a chaser.”

“That’s true, Hashknife. Still, me and you ain’t never been so danged unhappy.”

“Because we don’t mind our own business, I suppose. We’ve been so busy foolin’ with other people’s troubles that we ain’t never had time to have any for ourselves.”

They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. As they walked back toward the bunkhouse, Milly came to meet them.

“Where is Cliff?” she asked.

“He’s still in Oxbow,” said Hashknife.

“Drinking?”

“N-not an awful lot,” Hashknife hesitated.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” said Milly wearily. “Dorothy knows that something is wrong, but I can’t tell her the truth. She has been crying all the evening. She--she thinks that Cliff don’t love her any more. I’d rather have her think that than to know the real truth of the matter.”

“Prob’ly be better.”

“What about the sheriff?”

“Don’tcha worry about him, Milly. He had Cliff’s hat; found it out back of the jewelry store. But he ain’t got it now.”

“Oh, did you get it, Hashknife?”

“No-o-o, we didn’t, Milly. There was a trey of spades in its place.”

“Oh!”

“How’s Dad?” asked Sleepy.

“Dad?” Milly looked back at the yellow lights from a window. “Dad is reading.”

“Readin’?”

“Yes--the Bible.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Prob’ly do him good,” observed Hashknife softly.

“I don’t know how much it will do him,” Milly laughed wearily. “You see, he never read it before.”

“Well, he’s old enough to know what it’s about,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Is there anything we can do, Milly?”

“Not a thing. I wish Cliff would come home. If he don’t come pretty soon I’ll be tempted to tell Dorothy the whole thing and let her faint dead away. And she probably will, too.”

“Might be a good stunt,” said Sleepy. “She’ll be better off, if she knows the whole thing.”

“No, she won’t,” declared Hashknife. “She thinks Cliff is all right. There’s been many a brand snatched from the burnin’, as the preacher said. We’re takin’ a lot for granted.”

“What do you mean by that?” queried Milly anxiously. “You don’t mean that there’s a possible chance of Cliff not being guilty, do you?”

“He’s guilty of bein’ a fool. He’s guilty of drinkin’ too much hooch and all that, Milly.”

“And of falling in love with a honkatonk girl,” added Milly.

“Well,” Hashknife chuckled slightly, “there’s a few things yuh might excuse him for.”

“Hashknife met her,” laughed Sleepy. “But thank gosh she’s too fickle to rope him for long. She shifted from Cliff to Blackie Dahl, and now she’s got Vincent Roche roped and hog-tied.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Milly softly. “Vincent Roche.”

Sleepy knew that he had talked too much, but it was too late to retract it now. Milly turned away without another word and went back toward the house. Hashknife swore softly, as they went on into the bunkhouse and lighted the lamp.

“You sure talked too much,” said Hashknife sadly.

“I know it. I didn’t stop t’ think about Roche bein’ a regular visitor. I reckon I’ve just added to her misery, Hashknife.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigarette making.

“Yeah, I s’pose so. And old Dad up there readin’ the Bible; tryin’ to get some comfort for his soul: Oh, ----!” Hashknife got to his feet and paced the length of the bunkhouse. It was not often that he exhibited anger, and Sleepy squinted at him closely, wondering what was coming next. Hashknife stopped at the table and looked down at Sleepy.

“Cowboy, we’ve got to foller out our natural inclinations.”

“Meanin’ which?” Seriously.

“Up there in the house is an old man, tryin’ to find out in the Bible that his son still has a chance, Sleepy. There’s a girl up there cryin’ her heart out because she thinks that her feller don’t love her no more. And there’s a game little sister up there, tryin’ to keep a stiff upper-lip through it all.

“And down here in the bunkhouse are two ---- fool cowpunchers who ain’t got no business of their own, and have sworn to mind it. Now, you can do as you ---- please, Sleepy. Stick to yore pledge, cowboy, if yuh want to; but I hereby bust ---- out of mine; _sabe_?”

“Well,” Sleepy grinned softly and stretched out his legs comfortably, “I been wonderin’ how long we could stand for our own affairs. Just which end of this affair do we start gnawin’ on, Hashknife?”

“The first end we run into. By golly, I feel like a feller who hears the dentist say, ‘Well, it’s out.’”

Sleepy yawned and began pulling off his boots.

“This is our land of milk and honey, Hashknife,” he bantered. “A land where the coyote files off his teeth and eats grass with the cows. We came huntin’ peace and it didn’t taste good.”

Hashknife merely grinned widely. He knew that Sleepy was anxious for action, and was only talking for effect. They went to bed, and in about an hour Cliff came in. He was half-drunk, but was careful to not disturb them.

Feigning sleep Hashknife watched him take a quantity of money out of his pocket and stuff it under his pillow. It was impossible to estimate the amount, but it looked sufficient to excite Hashknife’s curiosity. Cliff seemed to be in good spirits, whistling softly to himself as he undressed. He knocked the chimney off the lamp, trying to extinguish it, and mumbled an apology as he crawled into his bunk.

* * * * *

“I tell yuh I’m about through.” Harmony leaned against the kitchen doorway and delivered his ultimatum. “By ----, I don’t mind a little gloom, but I draws the line at too much of it. Won’t nobody eat. They set down at the table, look like they’re goin’ to bawl about somethin’, and then plumb ignore my cookin’. I tell yuh, it’s too ---- solemn to suit me.”

Hashknife looked up from the washbasin, his face dripping, and reached for the towel.

“Is it as bad as that, Harmony?” he asked.

“As bad? ----, I ain’t got el-o-cution enough to express m’self. Cliff comes up here early and he runs into Dorothy. She’s cried until there ain’t no moisture left in her system. Yes, sir, she’s been cryin’ over that ---- fool half-baked kid; weepin’ over the fact that he don’t love her no more. My, ----, if she had any sense she’d be wavin’ a flag and cheerin’.

“And does she fall into his arms? Does she? Like ---- she does. She turns him down as cold as old man January. Whooee! I hears him say, ‘Dot, what is the matter?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Him down at Oxbow lappin’ up liquor, and her up here bawlin’ ’cause he don’t come home--and he wants to know what’s the matter.